It's there--in your pocket." He listened again, and his lips moved.

He bent over him, on one knee, and averted his eyes as he searched the pockets of Tavish's heavy coat.
Against the dead man's breast he found it, neatly folded, about the size of foolscap paper--several pages of it, he judged, by the thickness of the packet.

It was tied with fine threads of _babiche_, and in the moonlight he could make out quite distinctly the words, "For Father Roland, God's Lake--Personal." Tavish, after all, had not made himself the victim of sudden fright, of a momentary madness.

He had planned the affair in a quite business-like way.

Premeditated it with considerable precision, in fact, and yet in the end he had died with that stare of horror and madness in his face.